


Been Sitting Here All Night (I'm All Alone)

by RDcantRead



Series: Keeping His Thoughts To Himself (He'd Be Leaving Soon) [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Big Trouble in Little Hot Space Studio, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Hot Space Era, Hurt Roger Taylor (Queen), Loneliness, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 07:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RDcantRead/pseuds/RDcantRead
Summary: An acute loneliness permeated through the air in the studio, cutting through the harsh edges of anger and betrayal and leaving only a settled peace, with tension underlying it so very strongly.He was alone.





	Been Sitting Here All Night (I'm All Alone)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Dancer" by Queen

An acute loneliness permeated through the air in the studio, cutting through the harsh edges of anger and betrayal and leaving only a settled peace, with tension underlying it so very strongly.

He was alone. 

The cruel brightness of the cool white lights was digging into his very soul. The darkened recording area being revealed by the merciless lights in the control room, cold and empty.

There was no one there but him, the others gone to be pissed off at each other, to layer argument upon argument, leaving him in the dust. 

He was forgotten. 

He could see from behind the amps and all the recording equipment a separate room for his drum kit, isolating him in a room by himself, leaving the others to include each other, rather than him. 

His drum kit was left unused from song to song, a drum machine providing a job that he wasn't needed for anymore. 

Tears ran down his cheeks, dripping down his nose as silent sobs ripped themselves from his lungs. His nose running down onto his lips, chafing the underside of his nose and making him look disgusting.

He was crying for no reason. Anxiety about the current situation with the band making his sobs uneven, making his sight blur and his head hurt. Why was he crying? He couldn't answer, he doesn't think anyone could answer.

He flopped down heavily into the comfortable swivel chair, pushing himself away from the from the panel and curling up in a ball, his legs to his chest. 

He couldn't breathe. The gasping sobs had turned to desperate pulls of much needed air, his forehead rested on his knees. His eyes were screwed shut against the ghastly brightness of the studio lights in a valid attempt to keep out the overwhelming feeling of being seen, of being judged unworthy of the praise layered onto him, of the groups of girls begging to touch him, of the hoards of adoring Queen fans.

Sometimes he wished that he wasn't famous, that he stayed in dentistry and did his degree and lived a boring life that he was deserving of, not a life of hot girls and booze and drugs (and arguing and fights and loneliness.) 

His thoughts spiralled down, and he couldn't feel anything or think of anything other than the tickle of his hair against his hands, the feel of the ongoing tears against his cheeks, the lack of air getting into his lungs. 

He stayed in that position for what might have been ten minutes or ten hours, as it felt like a whole lifetime of pain and suffering and betrayal. 

The rejection, however imagined, hurt. The fact that his bandmates would ignore him, would give into the fact that drummers were replaceable hurt (however much he believed it.)

He's awakened from his cathartic stupor with tears still streaming down his face and his body protesting against the position he was in. The door to the studio had opened.

He races to the bathroom, hoping against all hope that he didn't run into anyone or have to talk to anyone, he didn't think he'd be up for that.

He's a mess, the image in the mirror is clear. His blond hair is ruffled past the point of tasteful, his eyes are red and his cheeks sticky, there's wet tear stains on his jeans and his Flash Gordon shirt is crumpled.

He looks like he feels, and with how he's feeling, he isn't surprised that he looks like he does. He looks like he's been drunk off his arse before collapsing on the sofa before coming in. 

He desperately wants attention from his bandmates, his best friends, but he knows that by now they're more likely to care about containing the brewing fissure between John and Brian than him. He's not important, and it's necessary to remember that in a world that doesn't care about you.

He can hear noises coming from the control room, someone moving a chair, setting things down, but it's mostly silent, really.

He knows that if the others were to see him they'd tell him to suck it up, stop being a baby and go out and do what he's being paid to do. 

So he sucks it up, his problems with this album and the band dynamics aren't important, not like John and Brian's, whose could potentially rip the band apart, his invalid feelings of loneliness and of being forgotten aren't important. 

He knows that his best friends wouldn't forget about him, he's one of them, it was always Queen against the world, but now it really seems like Queen against itself, with a few missing pieces. 

He makes his way to the live room, and begins tuning his drums in silence, Brian sitting in the control room, Red Special with him, tinkering with her despite already knowing his favourite tone. 

He can't wait until the others begin filing in, until Mack comes in and they can begin recording, until Crystal arrives and he can get away from the toxic atmosphere surrounding his bandmates, until John and Freddie appear and every little mistake is exaggerated until no one knows what they were arguing about. 

He sees a teardrop drip down onto the skin of his snare drum, he hadn't even realised that he'd begun crying, but now that he knows he can't stop. When did he become such a fucking pussy? Since when could he not handle being alone for extended periods of time? Since when was he such a needy bitch? 

Tears drip silently in the empty space, unnoticed and unwanted by both occupants of the recording space, because while he and Brian don't have the same rift between them as Brian and John, Brian seems to be distancing himself from anything to do with Queen. 

He continues tuning the drums in silence, before testing them out with quick roll. He doesn't know why he bothers with everything that he does, it's not like he's going to use the drum kit today, but he supposes that the forced sense of normality is something he can savour when he's got so very little to enjoy nowadays. 

The tears continue, running down the bridge of his nose to be wiped away by his wrist. He wasn't alone, but he was so lonely. He couldn't wait to get the day over and done with so he could go back to being alone somewhere else.

Too much time had passed before Freddie graciously appeared in the studio, his constantly late presence being the focus of Brian's wrath in the studio that day. 

Sometimes he wished that he could be the one Brian turned his anger towards, just so he knew that he was noticed by his friends, that he wasn't just a drummer in the background, that he was more than just Roger Taylor.

But maybe he wasn't more than just Roger Taylor. Maybe this was what he deserved. 

The day passed all too quickly, yet not quick enough, leaving Roger alone again, well wishes given only by Crystal, noticed only by the one who was meant to be his assistant, but was really one of his best friends. He wished the others would at least notice him in the turmoil of argument upon argument.

He was alone. Again. Left in the studio in yesterday's clothes. An acute loneliness permeated through the air in the studio, stifling and wretched, the only sounds were his breathing and the pounding of his heart. 

He cried himself to sleep that night. Maybe tomorrow would be better. But he doubted that.


End file.
